Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

"Cheese knives," Sharon said. "The wide blade is for crumbly cheese; the pointed one for hard varieties; the narrow squarish one is for soft and semisoft."

"I'll take a set. Since Sip'n'Nibble opened, I'm becoming a cheese connoisseur. So are the cats!... What are those round things?" He pointed to some circles of floppy rubber imprinted with the name of the shop.

"Take one to Polly," she said. "They're for unscrewing hard-to-openjars and bottles. They really work!"

Both of them looked suddenly toward the entrance. The band had stopped playing, and there was a roar of voices, including some angry shouting.

"Sounds like a riot!" Qwilleran said, dashing for the door just in time to hear glass shattering. A siren sounded. People were flocking to the south end of the block; others were running away. Witnesses were yelling to the police and pointing fingers. And the young couple who had opened the Pasty Parlor were looking in dismay at their smashed window.

As Qwilleran looked on, Lori Bamba came up behind him. "What happened, Qwill?"

"An anti-pasty demonstration," he said. "Militant right-wingers protesting against subversive ingredients in the filling."

He left Pine Street with an uneasy feeling that things were changing in Pickax-too fast. The locals were not ready for "designer pasties." The economic development division of the K Fund was partly to blame. Their theories sounded good, but they failed to understand a community 400 miles north of everywhere. Their ideas needed to be screened by a local commission. There was no one with whom he could discuss his apprehension. His friends in the business community were afire with optimism, and he hesitated to be a wet blanket. His closest confidante was recuperating from major surgery, and it would be unwise to trouble her. He did, however, take Polly the jar opener, and he praised the soup at the Spoonery.

She said, "We're going to watch the fireworks from our upstairs porch tonight. Would you like to join us, Qwill? Lynette has invited her bridge club, and there'll be refreshments."

"Thank you," he said, "but when one has seen fireworks over New York harbor, it's hard to get excited about a shower of sparks over the Pickax municipal parking lot."

When he returned to the bam, he found a mess in the lounge area. Someone had destroyed the Lanspeaks' potted mums that had been standing on the hearth. Someone had uprooted the vintage burgundy blooms and scattered them allover the white Moroccan rug.

Koko was sitting on the fireplace cube, waiting for Qwilleran's reaction.

"You, sir, are a bad cat!" was the stem rebuke.

Koko flicked a long pink tongue over his black nose. Then Qwilleran relented. "I didn't think much of them myself. They look like dried blood... Sorry, old boy." He stayed home for the rest of the day. When his antique sea chest arrived from Exbridge & Cobb, he had it placed outside the back door to receive packages. Finding a weathered wood shingle in the toolshed, he made a crude sign for it: DELIVERIES HERE. For dinner he hacked enough meat for two cats and one man from the carcass of Bird Number One. Later he read to the Siamese. Koko chose Poor Richard's Almanac, which provided such pithy tidbits as A cat in gloves catches no mice.

As the evening wore on, however, Qwilleran frequently tamped his moustache and consulted his watch. Koko was nervous, too. He prowled incessantly after the reading. Did he sense the forthcoming fireworks as he did the approach of a storm? The merchants on Main Street would serve their cookies and punch until nine o'clock; then the crowd would move to the Stables block for the sky show.

Promptly at nine the fireworks began, and Yum Yum hid under the sofa, but Koko was agitated. He growled; he raced around erratically. Qwilleran could hear, faintly, the crackling, thudding, and whining of the rockets; no doubt the cats could feel more than they could hear. A tone juncture Koko howled as if in protest.

The radio was tuned in to WPKX, broadcasting live from their van parked on the Stables block. Later, they would jockey the discs for the street dance. When the dance music started, Qwilleran stayed tuned, waiting for the ten o'clock newscast. He was in the kitchen scooping up a dish of ice cream when an announcer broke in with a bulletin:

"The Food Explo festivities in Pickax tonight were marred by the killing of a downtown merchant in the course of an armed robbery. Police have not released the victim's name, pending notification of family. The shooting took place while Explo crowds were watching the fireworks. Further information will be broadcast when available."

12

The WPKX bulletin reporting a homicide in downtown Pickax struck Qwilleran like the bomb that wrecked the hotel. In horror his mind raced through a roster of his friends who were merchants on Main Street: the Lanspeaks, Fran Brodie, Susan Exbridge, Bruce Scott, and more. He knew virtually everyone in the central business district.